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T H E NORTH AND SOUTH,
f i i J i n i i I f i i r i E
VOLUME I I. NEW BRITAIN, CONNECTICUT, SATURDAY, JANUARY 8, 1859.
T H E
j f o i i i f i i m m ' s m,
•i^nb Ifcw firitain Jottrnal»
B l i l l l l J B V R R I T T , K 4 l t * r,
W. OVRBIVIIltY. P r « p r l « t i » »,
w i L t n« rsatTTO BVERY BATUBDAT,
F r a n th« Printins Offloe of the Pioprletor, in tiM Buement of
tho BapUit Chuioh, New BniTAia. COVN.
TIRMS:—$1.60 per annum, In Advance. In bundles
of five or more to one address, $1.26.
UsnlMrt of Normal School, iobwrlWng In utranoo tor the Term,
AirDUhad at the nnniMl rale.
Of AI)T«»TI»IKO ! - For a Square, one InMrtlon, 76 Miiti,
caoh ad lltlonal IniwrHon, ou. For half a Square, one
InMriion, 60 nenti; each addittonHl Initerllon. 16 cti.
One Square for a year, »10. Half Square §6. BuilneSB Cardi,
eontalnlns ha!f jquare, per year, »6.00.
The Schoolmaster's Dream.
BY MRS. 8. C. UALL.
g^c Sabtatlj (glicmng Jfirtsibt.
A f T e a r r l i f e have N A t h i a c I * d o.
Ho t ye who at the anvil toll
And strike the sounding blow.
When from the burning; iron's breast
The sparks flj to nnd fro,
While answering to the hammer's ring.
And fires intenser glow—
Oh, while we feci 'tis hard to toil
And sweat the long day through.
Remember it is hmrder still
To have no work to do.
llo ! ye Who till the stubborn soil,
Wliose hard hands guide the plow.
Who bend beneath the summer's sun,
With burning cheek and brow—
' Ye deem the curse still clings to earth
Fro® olden time till now—
. , ' " ' ^ u t while ye feel 'tis hard to toil
I And labor all divy through,
Bemembor it is hanler still
To have no work to do!
Ho! yc who plow the sea's blue field—
Who ride the restless wave.
Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel
There lies a yawning grave.
Around whose bark the wintry winds
Like fiends of fury rave
Oh, while you feel 'tis hard to toil
And labor long hours through.
Remember it is liarder still
To have no work to do!
Ho! ye upon whose fevered cheek
The hectic glow is bright.
Whose mental toil wears out the day
And half the weary night.
Who labor for the souls of men.
Champions of truth and right—
Although ye feel your toil is hard.
Even with this glorious view,
Rcmcinbir it is harder still
To have no work to do!
Ho! all who labor—all who strive—
Ye yield a lofty power;
Do will) your might, do with your strength,
Fill every golden hour.
The glorious privilege to do
Is man's most noble dower—
Oh to your birthright and yourselves.
To your own souls be true!
A weary wretched life is theirs
Who have uo work to do.
HOLD ON, BOYS.—Hold on to your tongue
vfhen you are just ready to swear, lie, or speak
harshly, or say any ini|iroper word. H(|)d on to
your hand when you arc about to strike, pinch,
scratch, steal, or do any disobedient or improper
act. Hold on to your loot when you are on the
point of kicking, running away from duty, or
pursuing the path of error, shame, or crime.
Hold on to your temper when you are angry, ex-tiited,
or iciiposed upon, or others are angry about
you. Ho'd ou to your heart when evil associates
seek your company, and invite you to join in
their games, mirth and revelry. Hold on to your
good name at all times, fur it is more valuable to
you than gold, high places or fashionable attire.
Hold on to your truth, for it will serve you well,
uud do you good, through eternity. Hold on to
your virtue—it is above all price to you. in all
times and places. Hold on to your good oharac*
tcr, tor it is, aud ever will be, your best wealth.
A SDKB RECORD.- There is no way for men to
discern their names written iu the Book of Life,
but by readips the work of luuiotitioation in their
own hearts. I desire no uiiracdious voice from
heaven, no extraordinary iiigas or unacriptural
notices aud intbrmutiun uu thw matter. Lord let
me but find my heart obeyiog thy calls, my \vill
obediently submitting to thy commands; siu my
burden, atid Oitrist my desire; I never crave a
fairer ur surer ovideuce of thy elevating love to
my soul. And it I had uii uracle from heaven,
un extraordinary uiesuejiger from the other world,
to tell me thou luve^t tuc, L have no reason to credit
such a voice, wbiliU. 1 find my heart wholly sen.
suai, averse from Ciud, uud indisposed to all that
is upiritual.— tluvd.
NOT OF TUB DKAO HUT TUK LIVIKQ.—That
was » beautiful idt-a expressed by a Christiau lady
on ber death-bod, in reply tu u remark of bur
Lrutiier, who was taking leave of her to return to
his <ii«tunt residt'iuMi, that be sbuuld probably
uever aguiu meet her io tho laud of the living.
8he aii*H'<srud—lirulher, 1 trust we shall meet m
tlM) land of the living. We are uuw iu the laud
of the dyuig."
ADVIIUMTY.—No uiau is wore lulierable than
he that hutU ttu adverhity ; that mao is not tried
wrhetlier 1M Le good ur bad; uud (jud ucver crowu«
tliose virUius tthicli are ouly faeultias UIMI tiispo-ititioui;
but ^ e r y act of virtue is «ii iugredieul
into reward—^ud w^druMoi us lurlwwveu.—Jet'
* /ajf Taylur.
Jame? O'Loary was a NhoolmMtor of great
learning and still greater repute; his school was
tho most crowded of any scWl within fifly lullea
of Killgubbin, yet ho modestly designated it his
" Small College," and bis pupils bis thrifle of
boys." O'Leary never considered the " vulgari-ans"—
as ho termed those who only learned Ens*
lish, writing, and arithmetic, worth counting. No
boy, in his estimation, merited naming or notice
without he entered y i r | p l ; be b ^ n his school
catalogue with " tho Virgil8;"but was so deci-dedly
proud of " tho Homorians," that he oflen
regretted that he had no opportunity of " taking
the shine out of them ignorant chaps at Dublin
College," by a display of his " GRATIANS "—five
or six cloar-headod, intelligent boys, whose brogues
were upon their tongues, whose clothes hung upon
them by a mystery; and yet, poor fellows! were
as proud of their Greek, and as fond of capping
Latin verses as their master himself.
James O'Leary deserved his reputation to a
certain extent, as do nil who achieve one. In his
boyhood he had been himself a poor scholar, and
travelled tho country for his learning; he had
graduated at the bc^t hedge-school in the kingdom
Kerry, and at one time hud an idea of entering
Maynooth, but fortunately or unfortunately, as it
might be, he lost his vocatio'i by falling in love
or marrying Mary Byrne, to whom, despite a cer-tain
quantity of hardship and pedantry, be always
made a kind husband, although Mary, docile and
intelligent in every other respect, could never
achieve her A, B, C ; this he was fond of instanc-ing
as a proof of the inferiority of the fair sex.
Jamas looked with the greatest contempt on the
system pursued by the national schools, declaring
Latin to be the tbundation of all intellectual ed-ucation,
and tliat the man who had no J^atin was
not worthy of being called a man at all.
Donnybeg, the parish in which he resided, was
a very remote, silent district—an insolated place,
belonging chiefly to an apoplectic old gentleman,
whose father having granted long leases on remu-nerating
terms, left him a certain income, suffici-ent
for himself and not distressing to others.—
The staple fanners had so long considered Master
O'Leary a miracle, and he confirmed them in this
opinion so frequently, by saying in various lan-guages
what they had not understood, if spoken
in vernacular, that when a national school was
proposed in the parish by some officious person
they offered to send up their schoolmaster, attend-ed
by his Latin and Greek scholars—tail fashion
—to " bother the boord." Tney threw James
into such a state of excitement that be could
hardly restrain himself; and indeed his wife does
not hesitate to suy that ho has never been "right"
since.
The old landlord was as decided an enemy to
the national school system as James himself; and
the matter dropped without O'Leary's having an
opportunity of " flooring the board," which be
bitterly regrets. James for many years alter his
establishment at Donnybeg, was exceedingly kind
to the itinerant classs, of who^e merits he was so
bright an example ; for a long time his college
was the refuge of every poor scholar, who re-ceived
gratuitous instructions from " THE MASTER"
and the attention and tenderness of a mother from
the mistress." This generosity on the part of
James O'Leary increased his reputation, and won
him a great many blessings fruin the poor, while
pupils thronged to him from distant parts of the
kingdom—not only the itinerant echular, but the
sons of snug farmers, who boarded in the neigh-borhood,
and paid largely for the classics and all
accomplishments. Thus James found it very
profitable; in due time he slated his house, pla-cing
a round stone as a " pinnaolo," on either
gable, lepresenting, the one the terrestrial, the
uthej- the celestial globe; and construct a summer
house, to use his own phrases, on " geometrical
principles," whose interior was decorated with
maps and triangles, and every species of informa-tion.
Il'pupils coiue before, they rained on him"
after his ** Tusculum" was finished ; nnd be had
its name painted un a Gothic arch above the gate
whiuh, such was the inveteracy of old habits, al-ways
stood open for tho want of a latch—but
somehow, though James' fortune improved, there
was something about his heart that was not right;
be began to euiisider learning only valuable as a
means of wealth; he became civil to rich dunces,
uud continually snubbed a firbt rate "Gracian"
who was, it is true, only a poor suholar. This
feeling, like all others at fir^t merely tolerated,
gained ground by degrees, until Master O'Leary
put tho question to himself—** Why he should do
good and bother hinitielf so much about those who
Uid no god to hiiii ?" He had never ventured to
say this out aloud to any one; but he had at last
whispered it so often to himself that one evening
seeiug Mary busily occupied turning round aume
prepuratiuu iu a little'iron pot, reserved for a del-icate
stir>ubout, gruel, or a SUP OVBROTU," which
he kuew on that particular ocoasiou was intended
for tUe " Grauiau," who bad been uuwell for some
days—alter knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
aud vlusiutf aud clasping his well-tumbled Homer,
he said, "Mary, can t ye sit at the wheel now
that the day's a'most done, aud nature beuomea
soporific ?—which signifies un incliuatiuu to re-pose."
" In a minute, dear; it's for poor Aby — he's
siuk eutiruly, uud has uo one to lo<jk to him—the
pluue wlicre he lodges has uo cuuvayuiunoe fur a
drop of whey—and if they had, thay'vc uothiug
to make it of,—so I'll set dowu at ouot."
• "Tiiea why dout you sit dowu at ouctT—(A
oorruptiou of at ouoe " uud weans, at this wo.
went—it t» the pruseut tcuse—uuw—iusuutly.)
" hy do you sit wufttii^^your time—to wy uotfi-ing
of th« Bweet milk—and th*"—he was going
to say « tho sour ' hot was ashaiMd, and ao added,
* other things' for one who d o e s ^ good to na T"
" No goM to us," repeated l l i ^ , as she pour-ed
off the whey, keoping the raid oarefViHy bade
with a horn opoon. *'No good ttins, dear?—why
it's fbr the Abj—the—what is It jroa oatl hire—
Aby Gradus T No; Aby the OrMtan, your top
boy as used to be—he that his oM grandmother—
(G<>d help us! he had no other kjt or kin)—walk-ed
ten miles, just to see him staillfe^eMbe iMad ^
his olass, that she might die wii
it's for him it is
" Well," replied the maater, ••
know it*8 fbr him ; and I'll tell
we are growing—not to say on
to the age of middle life— past
doed, indeed—and we can't affi
away our aubatanoes on the like4(t Aby
James!" exclaimed Mary.
Ay, indeed, Mary, we must fOBi> to > yei^od
standing, his fingers twitching convulsivHy amid
the leaves of a Latin book in which he hoped to
be examined.
" What's your name t—and stand up!" said
the master gruflly.
The boy told him his name was Edward Moore.
" What do yon know T" he aaid. He know
English and Yoster (Voeter'a Arithmetic)—a tri-fle
of Algebra and Latin—and the Greek letters-—
be hoped to be a priest in time—"and should be,"
if hi* honor would give
—a full stop. I mean—and"—4i 4mr «
breath, then added—" AitD TAKIK a o MOU nOR
SCHOLARS!"
" O, James! don't say the Vkf o' that," said
the gentle hearted woman ;—doa^ a poor sdMlar
never come into the house that I dtdn*t feel as if
he brought fresh air from heafea with hiqi. I
never miss the bit I gave them ; iay b«art warms
to the soft, homely sound of thei^bare feet on the
floor, and the door a'most opens itadf to let them in.*
" Still we must take care of oonelvea, woman
dear," replied James with a dooBi look. Why
the look should be called ' doggw * I do not know
for dogs are anything but obstinate or given to i t;
but he put on the sort of look! so called ; and
Mary^ not moved from her puifMse, covered the
mouth of the jug with a huge apple potatoe
and, beckoning a neighbor'a child who was hop-ping
over the multiplication table in the little
courtyard, desired her to run for her life with the
jug, while it was hot, to the bonse where Aby
stopped that week, and be sure and tell him he
was to take it after he had said hia prayers, and
while it was •• si-jeeching hot." She then drew
her wheel op{>ositehcr husbandiaod began spinning.
" I thought, James," she said, " that Abel was
a strong pet of yours, though you've cooled to him
of late—I'm sure he got you a deal of credit."
" All I'll ever get by him."
Oh, don't say that! sure the blessing is a fine
thing—and all the learning yoa give out>, James,
honey, doesn't lighten what yoo have in your
bead, which is a great wonder.^ J f I only..take
the meal out of the loaset, handful by handful, it
wastes away, but your brains holds out better than
the meat; take ever so much away, and there's
the same left."
" Mary, you're a fool, agra!" answered her
hu^and—but he smiled. The schoolmaster was
a man, and all men like flattery, even from their
wives.
" And that's one reason, dear, why you can't
be a loser, by giving your leaminc; to them that
wants it," she continued ; " it does thdm good
and it does you no harm."
The schoolmaster made no answer, and Mary
continued. She was a true woman, gettir^ her
husband into a good humor before she intimated
her object.
" I've always thought a red head lucky, dear."
»• Tho ancienta valued them highly," he an-swered.
•• Think of that, now!—and a boy I saw to-day
had just such another lucky mole as yourself un-der
his left eye."
" What boy ?" inquired the master.
" A poor fatherless and motherless craythur,
with his Yosters and little books slung in a strap
at his back, and purty tidy second shute of clothes
under his arm for Sunday. It pats me in mind
of the way you told roe you set off poor-scholar-ing
yourself, darlin'! all as one as that poor Utile
boy, • BARRIN' TUK SBCOXD SHITTE or cifffUEa.'"
" What did he wantT' inquired O'Leary, re-suming
his bad temper, for Mary made a mistake
in her second h i t She judged of his character
by her own. Prosperity had rendered her more
thoughtful and anxious to dispense the blessings
she enjoyed, but it had han^ened her husband.
" Just ux months of your teaching to make a
man of him—that's all."
•• Has he money to pay for it?"
" I'm sure I never asked him. The trifle col-lected
for a poor scholar is little enough to give
him a bit to eat, without paying anything to a
STSONO (rich) man like yerself, James O'Leary;
only just tho ease and oontintment it brings to
men's sleep by nighty and one's work by day, to
be«fter doing a kind turn to a fellow christian.*'
" Mary," replied O'Leary, io a slow aud deci-ded
tone, " THAT'S ALL BOrmtaATtox."
Mary gave a start—hhe could hardly believe
^ e heard correctly ; but there sat JANIC> O'Leary
looking as hard aa if he had bsen turned fmm a
man of flesh into a man of stone. Under the
impreaiiou that k« wa« bevitehad, as she afiar-wards
declared, * like nothing.'
" Father of Mercy !" she exclaimed, spake
again, man alive! a ^ tell us it is yourself that's
in i t!
Jamos laughed; not joyously or humorously,
but a little dry, half-starved l a u ^ . lean and huii-l^
ry—a niggardly laugh; but before be had lime
to reply, the door opened slowly and timidly, aud
a shock of red hair, aurmouating a pals, acute
face, entered oousiderably in advanae of tbw body
to which it belonged.
'•That's the boy I told you of." said Mary.—
" Come io, MA IADUIAL; the master himself's
io it now, and will u l k to you. dear."
The l>oy advanced his blight, delieais form,
bowed both by t4u ly and prif«tioB.and biskeeB
peostrat B j ^yes looked out iMueatb lbs projeit'
lag bix)wa whieb oven>kadoved tbsa.
Mary lotd bim tu stt dova, but bs oootisaed
l ^ m
« t hum IM Htll* iir." replied the boy. •• for
Wtf roothtr has w of vs, paying to one whose
face we never see, a heavy rent for the shed we
starve under. My father's in heaven, my eldest
sister a cripple; and but for the kindness of the
neighbors, and the goodness of one or two fami-lies
at Christinas and Whitsuntide, and above all,
the bles^ngs of God—which never laves us—we
might turn out upon the road and b ^ ."
" But all that is nothing to me," said O'Leary.
" I know that, sir," answered the boy, yet he
looked as if he did NOT know i t ; " though your
name's u p in the country for kindness, as well as
learning; but I wis coming to it'—I have a trifle
of about eighteen shillings—besides five which
the priest warned me to keep when I went for
his blessing, as he said I might want it in case
of sickness; and I was thinking, if yer honor
would take tm out of the eighteen for a quarter
or so, I know I can't pjiy yer honor a? I ought,
only just for the love of God ; and if ye'd plase
to examine me in Latin, his reverence said I'd be
uo disgrace to you."
** Jui>t let me see wbat you've got," said the
schoolmaster, llie boy drew forth from inside
his waistcoat the remnant of a nightcap, and held
it toward the schoolmaster's extended ban 1; but
Mary stood b.^twce i her husband and the temptation
" Put it up, child," she said ; " the master
doesn't want it, he only had a mind to see if it
was safe,"—then aside to her husband—" Let
fall your hand, James, it's the devil that's under
yer elbow keeping it out, nibbling as the fishes do
at the hook; is it the thin shillings of a widow's
son you'd be after taking? It's not yourself
that's in it at a l l ; " then to the boy—" Put it
up, dear, and t:ome in the morning." But silver
had shown in the master's eyes t h r o u ^ the worn-out
knitting, the ' THCI shillings,' aa Mary called
them, and their chink arous^ his avarice the
more. So, sUnding up, he put aside his wife, as
men often do good counsel, with a strong arm,
and he said he would have all or none, and that
without pay he would receive uo pupil. The boy
thirsUng for learning, almost without hesitation
agreed to give him all he possessed, only saying
t h a t ' tne Lortl above would raise him up Mine
friend who would give him a bit of a sup, and a
lock of straw to sleep on.' Thus the bargain
was struck, the penniless child turned from the
door, knowing that at least for that night, be
would receive shelter from some kind-hearted cot-ter,
and perhaps give in exchange tuition to tho^e
who could not affi>rd to go to tne ' great master,'
while the dispenser of knowledge, chinking the
* thin shillings,' strode toward a well-heaped board
to add thereto the mite of a fatherless boy. Mary
crouched over the cheerful fire, rooking herselt
backward and forward iu real sorrow, aud deter-mined
to consult the priest as to the change that
had come over her husband, turning him out of
hims. If into something * not right.'
Tnis Was O'Leary's first atte apt to work out
his determination, and he was thoroughly ashamed
of himself; he did not care to encounter 3Iary's
reproachful looks, so he brought over his blotted
d e ^ , and sat with his back to her, apparently
intent on his books, but despite all he could do,
his mind went wandering back to the time he was
a poor scholar himself, and no matter whether he
looked over problems, or turned the leaves of Ho-mer,
there was the pale faoe of the poor scholar,
whom he had * fleeo^ ' to the uttermost.
Mary," he said, anxious lo be reeoiiciled to
himself, " there was never one of theni p<H)r
scholars that had not twice as much as they pur-tended."
" Was thsi the way with yourself, avick ? ' she
answered. James {Mshed ^ c k the desk, flung
the ruler at the cat, bounced the door after him,
and went to bed. He did not lall to sleep very
soon, nor when be did did he sleep very suund.y ;
but tumbled aud UMsed about in a most undigui-fied
nunuer,—so much so that his poor wife left
off rocking, and, taking out her beads, began
praying for him as hara aud fast as she could;
and she believed her prayers took eflect, fur he
SDoa became iniiM|uii aud slept soundly ; but Ma-ry
weut on praying; she was acoounied what was
callod the bteadiest IU.NO at prayers io the c >un<
try, but, on this particular night, she prayed ou
without stopplug until the gray uock, who always
crowed at four, told her what the time wa:<, aitd
she thought kbe might as well sleep for a cuuple
of hours; fbr Mary could not ouly wray when
she liked, but sleep wheu she pleased, which is
freqaeutly the caso with the iuuocent-hearte.1.
Aa soon however as she hung the beads on the
same uail that supported the holy water, cro!«,
aud cup, James gave a groan aud a bUrt, and
called her—" Give we your baud." he said, "that
I way know it's you that's in it." Mary did so,
aud ^uctiuuately bade God bless him
" Mary, my own ould darling," he whispered,
" I'w a grMi •inuer, aud all wy learuiug iao't—
isn't worth a b r ^ £irthiug." Mary was realty
astonished to hear him aiy ihi& " It's quite in
airvou I aai, dsar, and here's the key of my lit-tle
box, and go and bring out that po^r scholar s
night cap, aiMl u k e carv of his money, and as
mtoo as dsy bresks iatircly, go find out where he's
NUMBER 10.
stopping, and tell him I'll never tourh cross or
coin belonging to him, nor one of hi.s class, and
give him back his coins of silver and his coins of
brass; and Mary, agra, if you've the power, turn
every boy in the parish into a poor scholar, that
I may have the satisfaction of teaching them, for
I've had a DREAM. Mary, and I'll tell it to you,
who knows better than mvseif how to bo grateful
for snch a wiiming—there, praise the holy saints!
is a streak of daylight; now listen, Mary, and
don't interrupt roe.
' ' " " iraa flr
mm
to fly up, biJ^ Bbmething
kepf nje I Cotfu> Mot BISK—and aa I
grew used to the darkness, yon I paw a groat
many things floating about like myself—m ghty
curious shapes—one of them Wings like a
bat, oame up to me, and, after all, what was it
but a Homer! and I thought may be it would
hMp me up, but when I made a grab at it it turn-ed
into smoke; then came a great white-feeed
owl with red, bothered eyes, and out of one of
them glared a Vaster, and out of the other a
Gough; and globes and ink-horn> changed, Mary,
in the sight of my two looking eyes into vivacious
tadpoles, swinjining here and there and making
game of me as they passed. 0, L thought the
time was a thousand years, and every thing abobt
me talking bad Litin and Greek thut would both-er
a saint, and I without power to answer or get
away. I'm thinkhig it was the -schoolmaster's
purgatory I was in.
" May be so," replied Mary, " particularly as
they-wouldn't let you correct the bad Latin, dear."
" B a t it changed, M-iry, and L found myself
afther a thousand or two' ^ears in the midst of a
mist—there was a mistiness all around me, and
in my head—but it was a clear, soft, downy-like
vapor, and I had my full liberty in it, so I kept
on goinc; up—up for ever so many yeare. and by
degree-i it cle;ired away, drawing itself into a
BOIIREEN at either side, leaning towards a great
high hill of light, and i made straight for the
hill; and having got over it, I looked up, and of
all the brightness I ever saw was the brightness
above me the brightest; and the more I looked
at it the brighter .it grew, and yet there was no
dazzle in my eye?, and something whispered to
roe that that was heaven, and with that I fell
down on my knees and asked how I was to get
there; for mind ye, Mury, there was a gulf be-tween
me and the hill, or to speak more to your
understanding, a gap ; the hill of light above me
was in no way joined to the bill ou which I ^tood.
So I cried how was I to get there. Well before
you could say twioe ten, there stood before me
seven poor se'iolars, those seven, dear, that I
tjiught, and that have takeu the vestments since.
I knew them all, and I knew them well. Many
a bard day's work I had gone through with them,
just for that holy blessed pay, the love of God—
there they stood, and Al)el at their head "
" O yah mulla ! think of that now, ray poor
Aby ; didn't I know the good pure drop was in
him T" interrupted Mary.
"The only way for you to get to that happy
place, master dear," they said, " is fbr you t.)
make a ladder of us."
" Is it a ladder of the "
" Whist, will ye," interrupted tho master. "We
are the stairs," said they, " that will lead you to
that happy mansion—all your learning of which
you are so proud- all your exaniinations—all
your disquisitions and knowledge—your algebra
and matlieinatics—^your Greek—ay, or even your
Hebrew, if you had that same, all. are noti worth
a TRANTIEN. All the mighty fine doings, tho
greatness of man, or man's le irning, are not worth
tho value of a single blessing hero; bat we, ma.^^
ter jewel, WE ARE TOOR CIIAKITIES ; seven of Us
poor boys through your means learned their du-ty—
seven of us ! an<l upon us you can walk up
to the shining light, and be happy forever."
" I was not a bit bothered ut the idea of ma-king
a STEI'LADDER of the seven holy creutures,
who, though they had been poor scholars, were
far before myself where we are now ; but as they
bent, I stepped, first, on ASel. then on Paddy
Blake, thou on Bill Murphy ; but anyhow, wheu
I got to the cud of the seven, I found there were
five or six more wanting. I tried to make a
spring, and ouly for Abel I'd have gone I don't
know where—he hold me fast. " 0 tho Lord bo
merciful, is this tho way with lue ufiher all," I
said. Boys, darlings ! can ye get ma no more
than half way afther all ?"
Sure there must be more of UH to help you,"
makes aaswer Paddy Blake. " Sure you lived
many years iu the world afther we left you,"sav8
Abel, " and I'.SLKSS YOC IUUUE.NED YOOH UKAKT,
it isn't possible but you must have had a 'deal
more of us to help you. Sure you were never
content, having tasted tho ever-increasing swwt-neca
of seveu good deeds, to stop short aivl lave
your talk unfinished ? O. thetf, if you did, mas-ter,"
said tho poor fellow, " if you did, it's niy-belf
that's sorry for you." Well, Mary, a<rra I
i thought my heart would burst op ni when I re-meini)
Cred what came over ine last night and
much more—arithmetical c.ilculatioiw—when I
had f'lll and plinty, of what the little you gave
and I taught cimeto—aud every uigg»i^ thought
was like a sticking up lag.'or iu my heart—and
I looked at the glory t could never reaoh, because
of my cram|)ed heart, and just then I woko—I'm
sure I must have had ttid pnyor.H of some hvily
creature about me to cause bueh a waruiug."
Mary made no reply, Imt siuk ou her knees by
the bidsidoi, weeping—tears of joy they were—
she foil that her prayers bad been heard and au-
Hw«re>f. " Add uow, 31ary, lot us up aud be
stirring, for life is but tJiori t'.r the doing of our
duties. We'll look out for more of them. Aud
O ! but wy hsart's as li^ht as ttte down of u Wiis-tls.
and all thjuugb tba bleeted dx«am."

T H E NORTH AND SOUTH,
f i i J i n i i I f i i r i E
VOLUME I I. NEW BRITAIN, CONNECTICUT, SATURDAY, JANUARY 8, 1859.
T H E
j f o i i i f i i m m ' s m,
•i^nb Ifcw firitain Jottrnal»
B l i l l l l J B V R R I T T , K 4 l t * r,
W. OVRBIVIIltY. P r « p r l « t i » »,
w i L t n« rsatTTO BVERY BATUBDAT,
F r a n th« Printins Offloe of the Pioprletor, in tiM Buement of
tho BapUit Chuioh, New BniTAia. COVN.
TIRMS:—$1.60 per annum, In Advance. In bundles
of five or more to one address, $1.26.
UsnlMrt of Normal School, iobwrlWng In utranoo tor the Term,
AirDUhad at the nnniMl rale.
Of AI)T«»TI»IKO ! - For a Square, one InMrtlon, 76 Miiti,
caoh ad lltlonal IniwrHon, ou. For half a Square, one
InMriion, 60 nenti; each addittonHl Initerllon. 16 cti.
One Square for a year, »10. Half Square §6. BuilneSB Cardi,
eontalnlns ha!f jquare, per year, »6.00.
The Schoolmaster's Dream.
BY MRS. 8. C. UALL.
g^c Sabtatlj (glicmng Jfirtsibt.
A f T e a r r l i f e have N A t h i a c I * d o.
Ho t ye who at the anvil toll
And strike the sounding blow.
When from the burning; iron's breast
The sparks flj to nnd fro,
While answering to the hammer's ring.
And fires intenser glow—
Oh, while we feci 'tis hard to toil
And sweat the long day through.
Remember it is hmrder still
To have no work to do.
llo ! ye Who till the stubborn soil,
Wliose hard hands guide the plow.
Who bend beneath the summer's sun,
With burning cheek and brow—
' Ye deem the curse still clings to earth
Fro® olden time till now—
. , ' " ' ^ u t while ye feel 'tis hard to toil
I And labor all divy through,
Bemembor it is hanler still
To have no work to do!
Ho! yc who plow the sea's blue field—
Who ride the restless wave.
Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel
There lies a yawning grave.
Around whose bark the wintry winds
Like fiends of fury rave
Oh, while you feel 'tis hard to toil
And labor long hours through.
Remember it is liarder still
To have no work to do!
Ho! ye upon whose fevered cheek
The hectic glow is bright.
Whose mental toil wears out the day
And half the weary night.
Who labor for the souls of men.
Champions of truth and right—
Although ye feel your toil is hard.
Even with this glorious view,
Rcmcinbir it is harder still
To have no work to do!
Ho! all who labor—all who strive—
Ye yield a lofty power;
Do will) your might, do with your strength,
Fill every golden hour.
The glorious privilege to do
Is man's most noble dower—
Oh to your birthright and yourselves.
To your own souls be true!
A weary wretched life is theirs
Who have uo work to do.
HOLD ON, BOYS.—Hold on to your tongue
vfhen you are just ready to swear, lie, or speak
harshly, or say any ini|iroper word. H(|)d on to
your hand when you arc about to strike, pinch,
scratch, steal, or do any disobedient or improper
act. Hold on to your loot when you are on the
point of kicking, running away from duty, or
pursuing the path of error, shame, or crime.
Hold on to your temper when you are angry, ex-tiited,
or iciiposed upon, or others are angry about
you. Ho'd ou to your heart when evil associates
seek your company, and invite you to join in
their games, mirth and revelry. Hold on to your
good name at all times, fur it is more valuable to
you than gold, high places or fashionable attire.
Hold on to your truth, for it will serve you well,
uud do you good, through eternity. Hold on to
your virtue—it is above all price to you. in all
times and places. Hold on to your good oharac*
tcr, tor it is, aud ever will be, your best wealth.
A SDKB RECORD.- There is no way for men to
discern their names written iu the Book of Life,
but by readips the work of luuiotitioation in their
own hearts. I desire no uiiracdious voice from
heaven, no extraordinary iiigas or unacriptural
notices aud intbrmutiun uu thw matter. Lord let
me but find my heart obeyiog thy calls, my \vill
obediently submitting to thy commands; siu my
burden, atid Oitrist my desire; I never crave a
fairer ur surer ovideuce of thy elevating love to
my soul. And it I had uii uracle from heaven,
un extraordinary uiesuejiger from the other world,
to tell me thou luve^t tuc, L have no reason to credit
such a voice, wbiliU. 1 find my heart wholly sen.
suai, averse from Ciud, uud indisposed to all that
is upiritual.— tluvd.
NOT OF TUB DKAO HUT TUK LIVIKQ.—That
was » beautiful idt-a expressed by a Christiau lady
on ber death-bod, in reply tu u remark of bur
Lrutiier, who was taking leave of her to return to
his ubout, gruel, or a SUP OVBROTU," which
he kuew on that particular ocoasiou was intended
for tUe " Grauiau," who bad been uuwell for some
days—alter knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
aud vlusiutf aud clasping his well-tumbled Homer,
he said, "Mary, can t ye sit at the wheel now
that the day's a'most done, aud nature beuomea
soporific ?—which signifies un incliuatiuu to re-pose."
" In a minute, dear; it's for poor Aby — he's
siuk eutiruly, uud has uo one to lod help us! he had no other kjt or kin)—walk-ed
ten miles, just to see him staillfe^eMbe iMad ^
his olass, that she might die wii
it's for him it is
" Well," replied the maater, ••
know it*8 fbr him ; and I'll tell
we are growing—not to say on
to the age of middle life— past
doed, indeed—and we can't affi
away our aubatanoes on the like4(t Aby
James!" exclaimed Mary.
Ay, indeed, Mary, we must fOBi> to > yei^od
standing, his fingers twitching convulsivHy amid
the leaves of a Latin book in which he hoped to
be examined.
" What's your name t—and stand up!" said
the master gruflly.
The boy told him his name was Edward Moore.
" What do yon know T" he aaid. He know
English and Yoster (Voeter'a Arithmetic)—a tri-fle
of Algebra and Latin—and the Greek letters-—
be hoped to be a priest in time—"and should be,"
if hi* honor would give
—a full stop. I mean—and"—4i 4mr «
breath, then added—" AitD TAKIK a o MOU nOR
SCHOLARS!"
" O, James! don't say the Vkf o' that," said
the gentle hearted woman ;—doa^ a poor sdMlar
never come into the house that I dtdn*t feel as if
he brought fresh air from heafea with hiqi. I
never miss the bit I gave them ; iay b«art warms
to the soft, homely sound of thei^bare feet on the
floor, and the door a'most opens itadf to let them in.*
" Still we must take care of oonelvea, woman
dear," replied James with a dooBi look. Why
the look should be called ' doggw * I do not know
for dogs are anything but obstinate or given to i t;
but he put on the sort of look! so called ; and
Mary^ not moved from her puifMse, covered the
mouth of the jug with a huge apple potatoe
and, beckoning a neighbor'a child who was hop-ping
over the multiplication table in the little
courtyard, desired her to run for her life with the
jug, while it was hot, to the bonse where Aby
stopped that week, and be sure and tell him he
was to take it after he had said hia prayers, and
while it was •• si-jeeching hot." She then drew
her wheel op{>ositehcr husbandiaod began spinning.
" I thought, James," she said, " that Abel was
a strong pet of yours, though you've cooled to him
of late—I'm sure he got you a deal of credit."
" All I'll ever get by him."
Oh, don't say that! sure the blessing is a fine
thing—and all the learning yoa give out>, James,
honey, doesn't lighten what yoo have in your
bead, which is a great wonder.^ J f I only..take
the meal out of the loaset, handful by handful, it
wastes away, but your brains holds out better than
the meat; take ever so much away, and there's
the same left."
" Mary, you're a fool, agra!" answered her
hu^and—but he smiled. The schoolmaster was
a man, and all men like flattery, even from their
wives.
" And that's one reason, dear, why you can't
be a loser, by giving your leaminc; to them that
wants it," she continued ; " it does thdm good
and it does you no harm."
The schoolmaster made no answer, and Mary
continued. She was a true woman, gettir^ her
husband into a good humor before she intimated
her object.
" I've always thought a red head lucky, dear."
»• Tho ancienta valued them highly," he an-swered.
•• Think of that, now!—and a boy I saw to-day
had just such another lucky mole as yourself un-der
his left eye."
" What boy ?" inquired the master.
" A poor fatherless and motherless craythur,
with his Yosters and little books slung in a strap
at his back, and purty tidy second shute of clothes
under his arm for Sunday. It pats me in mind
of the way you told roe you set off poor-scholar-ing
yourself, darlin'! all as one as that poor Utile
boy, • BARRIN' TUK SBCOXD SHITTE or cifffUEa.'"
" What did he wantT' inquired O'Leary, re-suming
his bad temper, for Mary made a mistake
in her second h i t She judged of his character
by her own. Prosperity had rendered her more
thoughtful and anxious to dispense the blessings
she enjoyed, but it had han^ened her husband.
" Just ux months of your teaching to make a
man of him—that's all."
•• Has he money to pay for it?"
" I'm sure I never asked him. The trifle col-lected
for a poor scholar is little enough to give
him a bit to eat, without paying anything to a
STSONO (rich) man like yerself, James O'Leary;
only just tho ease and oontintment it brings to
men's sleep by nighty and one's work by day, to
be«fter doing a kind turn to a fellow christian.*'
" Mary," replied O'Leary, io a slow aud deci-ded
tone, " THAT'S ALL BOrmtaATtox."
Mary gave a start—hhe could hardly believe
^ e heard correctly ; but there sat JANIC> O'Leary
looking as hard aa if he had bsen turned fmm a
man of flesh into a man of stone. Under the
impreaiiou that k« wa« bevitehad, as she afiar-wards
declared, * like nothing.'
" Father of Mercy !" she exclaimed, spake
again, man alive! a ^ tell us it is yourself that's
in i t!
Jamos laughed; not joyously or humorously,
but a little dry, half-starved l a u ^ . lean and huii-l^
ry—a niggardly laugh; but before be had lime
to reply, the door opened slowly and timidly, aud
a shock of red hair, aurmouating a pals, acute
face, entered oousiderably in advanae of tbw body
to which it belonged.
'•That's the boy I told you of." said Mary.—
" Come io, MA IADUIAL; the master himself's
io it now, and will u l k to you. dear."
The l>oy advanced his blight, delieais form,
bowed both by t4u ly and prif«tioB.and biskeeB
peostrat B j ^yes looked out iMueatb lbs projeit'
lag bix)wa whieb oven>kadoved tbsa.
Mary lotd bim tu stt dova, but bs oootisaed
l ^ m
« t hum IM Htll* iir." replied the boy. •• for
Wtf roothtr has w of vs, paying to one whose
face we never see, a heavy rent for the shed we
starve under. My father's in heaven, my eldest
sister a cripple; and but for the kindness of the
neighbors, and the goodness of one or two fami-lies
at Christinas and Whitsuntide, and above all,
the bles^ngs of God—which never laves us—we
might turn out upon the road and b ^ ."
" But all that is nothing to me," said O'Leary.
" I know that, sir," answered the boy, yet he
looked as if he did NOT know i t ; " though your
name's u p in the country for kindness, as well as
learning; but I wis coming to it'—I have a trifle
of about eighteen shillings—besides five which
the priest warned me to keep when I went for
his blessing, as he said I might want it in case
of sickness; and I was thinking, if yer honor
would take tm out of the eighteen for a quarter
or so, I know I can't pjiy yer honor a? I ought,
only just for the love of God ; and if ye'd plase
to examine me in Latin, his reverence said I'd be
uo disgrace to you."
** Jui>t let me see wbat you've got," said the
schoolmaster, llie boy drew forth from inside
his waistcoat the remnant of a nightcap, and held
it toward the schoolmaster's extended ban 1; but
Mary stood b.^twce i her husband and the temptation
" Put it up, child," she said ; " the master
doesn't want it, he only had a mind to see if it
was safe,"—then aside to her husband—" Let
fall your hand, James, it's the devil that's under
yer elbow keeping it out, nibbling as the fishes do
at the hook; is it the thin shillings of a widow's
son you'd be after taking? It's not yourself
that's in it at a l l ; " then to the boy—" Put it
up, dear, and t:ome in the morning." But silver
had shown in the master's eyes t h r o u ^ the worn-out
knitting, the ' THCI shillings,' aa Mary called
them, and their chink arous^ his avarice the
more. So, sUnding up, he put aside his wife, as
men often do good counsel, with a strong arm,
and he said he would have all or none, and that
without pay he would receive uo pupil. The boy
thirsUng for learning, almost without hesitation
agreed to give him all he possessed, only saying
t h a t ' tne Lortl above would raise him up Mine
friend who would give him a bit of a sup, and a
lock of straw to sleep on.' Thus the bargain
was struck, the penniless child turned from the
door, knowing that at least for that night, be
would receive shelter from some kind-hearted cot-ter,
and perhaps give in exchange tuition to tho^e
who could not affi>rd to go to tne ' great master,'
while the dispenser of knowledge, chinking the
* thin shillings,' strode toward a well-heaped board
to add thereto the mite of a fatherless boy. Mary
crouched over the cheerful fire, rooking herselt
backward and forward iu real sorrow, aud deter-mined
to consult the priest as to the change that
had come over her husband, turning him out of
hims. If into something * not right.'
Tnis Was O'Leary's first atte apt to work out
his determination, and he was thoroughly ashamed
of himself; he did not care to encounter 3Iary's
reproachful looks, so he brought over his blotted
d e ^ , and sat with his back to her, apparently
intent on his books, but despite all he could do,
his mind went wandering back to the time he was
a poor scholar himself, and no matter whether he
looked over problems, or turned the leaves of Ho-mer,
there was the pale faoe of the poor scholar,
whom he had * fleeo^ ' to the uttermost.
Mary," he said, anxious lo be reeoiiciled to
himself, " there was never one of theni pun<
try, but, on this particular night, she prayed ou
without stopplug until the gray uock, who always
crowed at four, told her what the time wa: Mot BISK—and aa I
grew used to the darkness, yon I paw a groat
many things floating about like myself—m ghty
curious shapes—one of them Wings like a
bat, oame up to me, and, after all, what was it
but a Homer! and I thought may be it would
hMp me up, but when I made a grab at it it turn-ed
into smoke; then came a great white-feeed
owl with red, bothered eyes, and out of one of
them glared a Vaster, and out of the other a
Gough; and globes and ink-horn> changed, Mary,
in the sight of my two looking eyes into vivacious
tadpoles, swinjining here and there and making
game of me as they passed. 0, L thought the
time was a thousand years, and every thing abobt
me talking bad Litin and Greek thut would both-er
a saint, and I without power to answer or get
away. I'm thinkhig it was the -schoolmaster's
purgatory I was in.
" May be so," replied Mary, " particularly as
they-wouldn't let you correct the bad Latin, dear."
" B a t it changed, M-iry, and L found myself
afther a thousand or two' ^ears in the midst of a
mist—there was a mistiness all around me, and
in my head—but it was a clear, soft, downy-like
vapor, and I had my full liberty in it, so I kept
on goinc; up—up for ever so many yeare. and by
degree-i it cle;ired away, drawing itself into a
BOIIREEN at either side, leaning towards a great
high hill of light, and i made straight for the
hill; and having got over it, I looked up, and of
all the brightness I ever saw was the brightness
above me the brightest; and the more I looked
at it the brighter .it grew, and yet there was no
dazzle in my eye?, and something whispered to
roe that that was heaven, and with that I fell
down on my knees and asked how I was to get
there; for mind ye, Mury, there was a gulf be-tween
me and the hill, or to speak more to your
understanding, a gap ; the hill of light above me
was in no way joined to the bill ou which I ^tood.
So I cried how was I to get there. Well before
you could say twioe ten, there stood before me
seven poor se'iolars, those seven, dear, that I
tjiught, and that have takeu the vestments since.
I knew them all, and I knew them well. Many
a bard day's work I had gone through with them,
just for that holy blessed pay, the love of God—
there they stood, and Al)el at their head "
" O yah mulla ! think of that now, ray poor
Aby ; didn't I know the good pure drop was in
him T" interrupted Mary.
"The only way for you to get to that happy
place, master dear," they said, " is fbr you t.)
make a ladder of us."
" Is it a ladder of the "
" Whist, will ye," interrupted tho master. "We
are the stairs," said they, " that will lead you to
that happy mansion—all your learning of which
you are so proud- all your exaniinations—all
your disquisitions and knowledge—your algebra
and matlieinatics—^your Greek—ay, or even your
Hebrew, if you had that same, all. are noti worth
a TRANTIEN. All the mighty fine doings, tho
greatness of man, or man's le irning, are not worth
tho value of a single blessing hero; bat we, ma.^^
ter jewel, WE ARE TOOR CIIAKITIES ; seven of Us
poor boys through your means learned their du-ty—
seven of us ! anf. " Add uow, 31ary, lot us up aud be
stirring, for life is but tJiori t'.r the doing of our
duties. We'll look out for more of them. Aud
O ! but wy hsart's as li^ht as ttte down of u Wiis-tls.
and all thjuugb tba bleeted dx«am."